


Pillars Parted Asunder

by orphan_account



Category: Loveless
Genre: M/M, Multi, explicit violence, implicit sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-20
Updated: 2011-08-20
Packaged: 2017-10-22 21:08:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/242609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'“Good boys,” you murmur, because  you know what that does to them, and crook your fingers to beckon them  to their feet.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pillars Parted Asunder

**Author's Note:**

> This is something of an AU, as will probably become apparent in the fic.

  
You leave school an hour late, your bag weighed down with books from the library, your coat whipping behind you as you stride out of the deserted gate into the gathering darkness of the evening. It’s chilly this late in the year, so you pull your scarf tight around your neck and slip on black leather gloves, which you shed later in the warmth of the train speeding you into the city. You sit at the end of the row, closest to the doors, and place your bag down next to you to stop anyone else taking the seat.

When the train arrives you divert from your course by a street or two to buy Ritsuka’s birthday present; you’ll wash the box and giftwrap it when you get home. That done, and clenching your fingers to ward off the numbness that’s lurking in the freezing air and the clouds your breath makes and the wind that pinches at your face and ears, you walk.

You meet Soubi and Nisei at the entrance to the alleyway you decided on last time, and you don’t quite smile upon seeing them there (you arrived late, on purpose), but the corners of your mouth curl in something like one. You don’t need to speak and nor, therefore, do they; you raise a hand and they follow – not leashed today, but they might as well be.

They look cold, but not yet numb, you note, and approve – that’ll heighten sensations without muting them. The wind whips at their long hair as they walk behind you, and the light that has seeped into the alley is dying slowly above your head; you’ll remember it as a series of barely connected images, if at all.

You guide them through backstreets, in and out of dark deserted doorways, past shady clubs with lines of shady clientele waiting outside for opening hour, and further, down a narrow road of boarded-up industrial buildings to the brick arches under a railway bridge. A train thunders over your head as you halt just inside the entrance of this arch.

They stop on either side of you, and over the cold creeping in your bones and the ground trembling slightly in the aftermath of the train you can feel their adrenalin simmering, a readiness and eagerness in the way they pull off their gloves and clench fists turned pink with cold.

You stand still, staring forwards as your eyes adjust and make out the two dark shapes unfolding from the opposite wall. Without turning your head – for you know they’re watching – you nod, spread your hands palms-up, and they move forwards from either side of you like wolves, and close on the lumbering shadows.

What follows is short and stylishly well-executed, worth watching although your victory was never questionable. Halfway through you turn on the floodlight in the ceiling of the archway, for a better view. When it is over they run, screaming through broken teeth of your unfair advantage and of retribution, leaving you alone.

You stand by the far wall and your dogs kneel at your feet, their heads bowed, their dirty little hands behind their backs. You smile. “Good boys,” you murmur, because you know what that does to them, and crook your fingers to beckon them to their feet. They rise and you grip them by the necks, one in each hand, the leather of your gloves straining and squeaking, a barrier between your skin and theirs, as you clench your fingers and your eyes widen as theirs do (but for different reasons).

It is, of course, Nisei who struggles, and you can feel his heightened pulse assaulting your palm as his spine curves inwards – Soubi, however, his eyes half-closed in what you suppose might be ecstasy, all but leans _into_ your grasp, and the gloves prevent you feeling the jagged scars of the name you carved into his throat. You can feel him swallow, and choke on it, though, and that does just as well, is just as filthy.

You pull them back so they’re parallel to you and then straighten your arms all at once, slam their bodies hard into the wall in front of you. Nisei shouts, writhes, struggles free of your hold and coughs, bent double. Soubi _moans_ and it makes you curl your lip, disgusted; you tent your fingers around his throat before suddenly letting go.

He shudders in the absence of your hand, flat against the wall as though he’s going to slide down it, and you smile slightly, knowing that he won’t. You turn away abruptly, and your ears twitch and pick up their soft gasps of disappointment but not, surely, of surprise. There is a chunk of rock – rubble, old bricks, concrete – near the entrance to the arch and you lean against it, noting the quiet as you walk. Perhaps the trains have stopped running. There are only, now, the ragged gasps from behind you and the jarring shifting of dirt beneath your feet.

You wave a lazy hand in their direction: _do as you please_. They are forbidden from touching you so they each turn their desire on the other, as they ever have; they attack each other and it’s desperate on Soubi’s part, vicious on Nisei’s, open-mouthed and spitefully unhappy. You are amused to see that as Soubi shoves his knee between Nisei’s legs he takes Nisei’s hand and presses it against his own neck.

Their fucking is messy. The noises they make, and skin turned sweaty and pink now with more than cold, exposed and bright under the fierce uncensoring whiteness of the floodlight, disgust you. You turn on your heel and walk away; surely Soubi, at least, will have noticed you leaving and feel all the more filthy without the satisfaction of knowing you’re watching. It is night now, the sky a dirty starless brown-black, the inky darkness of the empty roads cut through by the orange beams of streetlights. The animals have all returned to their holes.

You pull your scarf tighter, rub your gloved hands to warm them, and make smoke signals with your lingering breath. The only one who could decipher them is miles away, curled up in bed, dreaming of you. You hurry home.


End file.
